Damaged Goods
by Amatara
Summary: Albert Rosenfield reflects on weakness and strength, and where Dale Cooper fits in. Set during episode 2.09, "Arbitrary Law".


_This town is damn psychic_, Albert thought, then dealt himself a mental kick in the ass. The town was just a town, and a wretched one at that. All the rest was mumbo-jumbo, his imagination running wild after an overdose of madness and mayhem, not to mention a raging need for nicotine, nipping away at his skin like a starved troop of killer ants.

Still, it would be easy to pretend that Twin Peaks had a mind of its own. That freak thunderstorm, for one, that had somehow decided to roll in just as they were pulling into the driveway of the Roadhouse; and now, the bloody water sprinklers. One minute they were still going full force, the deluge dripping into his ears and lapping at his soles and starting to form a small lake around the middle of the cell, where Cooper was still muttering to Leland Palmer – and then they stopped, just like that. Still fixing on Cooper's back, Albert didn't even realize they _had_ stopped until he saw the telltale slump of the shoulders, and knew with perfect certainty that Palmer was no longer in the land of the living. The chill hit him a second after that, which was when he glanced up to see the downpour had ended.

Beside him, Truman was blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream, which, Albert thought darkly, might not even be far from the truth. And – ah, hell, now he started to sound like Cooper, too.

Reaching mechanically to straighten his tie, Albert grimaced at the soggy mess that was his uniform. Speaking of Cooper – much as he granted the man his little heart-to-heart with the dead, right now his priorities lay with the living, and that included getting their soaked asses out of here. Peeling himself off the wall, he exchanged a wordless look with Truman before making his way to the center of the room. Sat down on his heels with a less-than-subtle squelch.

"Cooper?" He hesitated a moment before putting a hand between those sharp shoulder blades. Then, with as little sarcasm as he could manage, "Coop, whomever you were talking to – just left on permanent vacation. It's over."

No reaction, except for a slight straightening of the shoulders, followed by a lurching shudder. Albert clenched his teeth. "Cooper, come on. That ambulance will be here in a minute – they'll take Palmer. There's nothing else you can do for him; what you _can _do is get yourself into some dry clothes. I don't know about you, but contracting pneumonia in this hellhole strikes me as less than fun, and right now we're doing a gorgeous job of trying to."

Something of the litany must have sank in, because Cooper shifted onto his other hip and blinked at him a little dully. "This is my only suit, Albert." Enunciating slowly, as if explaining to a five-year-old. Then frowned. "The ambulance–"

"– will get here any time." Albert was shivering in earnest now; they all were, he noted, glancing over his shoulder to see Truman standing away from the wall, hugging his dripping coat. He moved to roll the body onto its back and out of Cooper's arms, relieved when no protest followed, then reached over to close the eyes. He only glanced at them for a second, but in the fraction between looking and pulling away, he suddenly found his hands quaking with something that sure as hell wasn't cold. As if on cue, the sprinklers hissed, and if Albert had been in any other profession he'd have sworn they sounded threatening. Nothing but trapped air, he told himself, clenching and unclenching his fingers to quell his body's treacherous attitude, but the unease clung worse than his sodden clothes.

"Albert?" Questioning tone, and a voice that sounded vaguely like the old Cooper again. Albert jerked his head around to find the other man peering at him as if he'd just hopped around yodeling or dancing the Hula, and gritted his teeth. This was absurd, really. He'd had hundreds of corpses on his slab and never seen them as anything more than what they were: bags of decaying cells, having outlived their usefulness in everything except providing clues. That Palmer's should give him the shakes like that was yet another sign this case was rotten as hell.

"Never mind," he grumbled, taking advantage of the lull to get upright and haul Cooper along with him. Then, forcing himself to sound clinical, "You go with the sheriff. I'll wait here," a vague nod at the body, "hitch a ride, do the postmortem before our man goes stale." But something in his tone must have betrayed him, because there came that look again, the one Albert usually considered one part comforting and three parts irritating. Today, though, he was weirdly relieved to see it.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Albert," Cooper replied softly, swaying only a little as he found his sea legs – literally, because the water level had hardly dropped at all. "It won't tell us anything new. And as I'm sure even you'll agree –", a mild look, "Dr. Hayward is perfectly capable of determining cause of death, take prints and a DNA sample, which should be all we need. Besides –" trailing off to turn towards the miserable shape on the floor, "I believe… Leland deserves some peace now."

A long pause, that left Albert plenty of time to come up with a biting remark on exactly _what _kind of peace he thought fathers who slaughtered their daughters deserved, only to stop himself and let it go. Leave it to Cooper to see meaning in things, even when there wasn't. And on the facts, at least, they did agree. With a full confession, there was really no point in an autopsy except for Albert to assert his dominance – which right now, as he realized with some surprise, left him colder than a stone-cold morgue.

Just great, he groaned inwardly. Now he was getting soft as well as squeamish.

He met Cooper's eyes, half obscured as they were by dripping strands of hair, swiped at his own eyes in unconscious empathy. "Okay, Coop. Your case, your call." Shot him a tight, covertly grateful nod and received a wan smile in return.

A splashing sound behind his back told him Truman was wading towards the door to get it open. Quite possibly, Albert's mind supplied unbidden, the best idea the man had had in his career up to this day. "Right. Let's talk practical," he snapped, slipping the mask back into place with somewhat less ease than he'd expected. "Ambulance. Clothes," counting off the points on his fingers; _a_ _smoke, for the love of God._ "And someone needs to call Palmer's wife."

"I'll do it," Truman muttered, giving an uncoordinated jerk at the door as if to get back at it for smashing Palmer's skull. Not that Albert blamed him; hell, he'd hit something himself if he thought it would do any good. But it wouldn't, of course, no more than it did for Truman, who was now holding open the door for them, shaking his head as if to clear it. "You two did your jobs, now I gotta do mine. Sarah… she's a good woman. I owe it to her to tell her myself. Not that that'll make the blow any softer, but…"

Albert glanced back to see Cooper stirring at his shoulder, smiling that shattered smile that could crack a person's heart. "You're absolutely right, Harry." A sigh. "And believe me, I don't envy you for a moment for what you need to do."

A beat while Truman fidgeted, clearly nursing exactly the same thought, then set his jaw and turned to Albert. "Okay. Practical. You got any spare clothes at the hotel?"

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "I wasn't exactly planning an extended stay. So, no – unless you consider pants and shoes non-essential to 'rural life', in which case, I'm good to go."

"_Don't _start, Albert." Truman's voice was tight, carrying some of the old hostility, and Albert felt his own temper flare before he managed to push it down. Anger was good; Truman needed some fight kicked back into him, and as long as it didn't get him another right hook to his jaw, Albert was happy to provide the bait. But of course there had to be Cooper, stopping him with an exasperated noise and a hand on his arm. Giving in – because that's what they all did, didn't they, be nice kids and listen to Coop – Albert let his breath out slowly, saw Truman's scowl ease in response.

"All right," the sheriff muttered, running a hand through his unruly mop of wet hair. The result looked, Albert observed almost clinically, ever so much like a waterlogged poodle – though not entirely unattractive. "There's a room at the back, two doors down from the meeting room, that has a shower and lockers. Should be some clothes in there – nothing fancy, but enough to make do. Leave yours outside. I'll ask Lucy to take them straight to the cleaner's."

Albert grimaced. "Ask her to get a pack of smokes while she's at it." A stretched-out silence, in which he peered aside to see Cooper gazing at some distant plane of existence again. This time he did roll his eyes, put out a hand and started tugging the man past Truman towards the doorway, clapping the sheriff's shoulder in passing. "Thanks, Harry." Turned and stifled a surge of gratification at the bewildered look he got in return. Ah, civility - the smaller the dose, the greater the effect, wasn't that right?

And then of course, inevitably, Truman's eyes would flick towards Cooper, filling with that magic mix of awe and tenderness that Cooper seemed to inspire wherever he went. Oh, Albert knew all the signs – hell, he'd had them _himself_, back when he didn't know any better. People would see Cooper like Truman was seeing him now, walking out of a maelstrom silent, brooding, soul stripped bare, and think the man was _fragile_. Add to that the outlandish methods and an infatuation with life in general, and everyone would jump instinctively for Cooper – to protect, shield, keep safe.

The truth was, Cooper was probably less fragile than all the rest of them put together.

Oh, you wouldn't give it to him, sure. But he was the only man Albert knew who could _feel _his way through a case, and still stick to his sanity at the end – although "sane" was a flexible concept if one was talking about Dale Cooper. It was why Albert was hiding in a lab while Cooper was out in the field; why Cooper was a saint and Albert an arrogant chain-smoking bastard with no other recourse than burying every inch of concern under a mound of sarcasm fifteen feet high.

But there were limits to every man's strength, and Albert had seen those, too, the months after Caroline died while Dale Cooper lived.

It was why, no matter how tough Cooper might be, that need to protect never left him entirely. He could feel it right now, gnawing at his defenses as he walked Cooper up the stairs back to the lobby, past glassy eyes following them from behind the reception's desk, and into the next corridor. The light above their heads flickered as if mocking him, and Albert cursed under his breath, the need for a smoke flaring high enough for a moment to blank out everything else.

When he pushed Cooper into the bathroom, shoving a pair of flannel pants and a horrid red-and-orange-striped shirt in with him, it was with a relief so great it hurt.

Rooting through the locker for clothes was calming in a strange kind of way, and he spent some time frowning over a burgundy vest with an eland print and a pair of matching socks in mute fascination. In the end, he settled for a plain sweater and the only pair of pants that seemed his size. Both were mercifully black, as well as lacking elands or other indigenous wildlife. He put on the sweater, then paced for a while, making a doomed effort to save what he could from his drenched pack of cigarettes – the umpteenth casualty of a week of hell.

There was one rickety chair in the room, and he curled into it cautiously, afraid somehow that it would turn against him like the rest of the assorted furniture. Swallowed, tasted acid and felt suddenly grateful that lunch had consisted of no more than a bag of soggy peanuts and half a flask of scotch.

A rattling noise, and then a flustered Cooper stuck his head out the door. "Albert? Is something wrong?"

_Oh, for God's… _"Not a care in the world, Coop," he called over his shoulder, making sure to let the irony ring through. "I just assumed putting on the leprechaun outfit wasn't something you wanted an audience for."

"Albert –" That exasperated noise again. "It's freezing out here. Just come inside."

He had no defense, of course, none at all. Rolling his eyes at Cooper to signal defeat, he slipped inside only after the clatter of the shower was well on its way. Got rid of the wet suit altogether and perched on the tiny chair in black baggy outfit, which felt somehow more inappropriate than if he'd been stark naked. Watched hot steam spiral upwards and curl down again, misting windows and mirror to mix with the hard rap of water into something like a dreamscape. For the umpteenth time that day, he was tempted to pinch himself just to see if he'd wake up someplace else.

"Albert, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you kept the best clothes for yourself." Cooper was out, buttoning that screaming orange shirt, which looked far less ridiculous on him than it had any right of doing. The smile, though, was still paper-thin.

"Caught me red-handed," Albert growled, spreading both arms in mock defeat. Then, struggling to keep it light, "Leaving aside the obvious tricks that outfit plays on skin tone – not to mention it scorches the eyes – I'd say you're looking better, Coop. "

Smile deepening slightly, not quite solid yet. "There's no underestimating the restorative powers of a scalding hot shower, Albert, as I'm sure you agree."

"Yeah, well… I think I'll take you up on that." He grimaced, pulled himself up by the sink. Here, too, the overhead light was stuttering in a kind of twisted Morse code, casting everything in a sickly strobe light. Just five minutes in this room, and he already felt like his pulse was matching its rhythm. Christ, he needed that smoke – before he was tempted to settle for Valium instead. No, strike that: he was tempted already.

"Agent Cooper?" The tapping at the door somehow managed to be just like the voice: drawn out, piercing, and hell on the nerves. Albert started on a groan, bit it back at the look on Cooper's face.

"Yes, Lucy, what is it?" Patience of the saints, Albert thought – or was it the _in_sane? Most days he hardly knew the difference.

"Agent Cooper, I'm going to take your clothes now." A scurrying noise indicated she was doing just that, and Albert let out that groan anyway. _Oh, to live a life of linear thinking._ "I called the cleaner's in town – they said if I took them in now, they'd be ready and dry in half an hour." A pause, then, voice managing somehow to become _more _unpleasant, "Agent Rosenfield? Which kind of _cigarettes_ do you want?" The word pronounced like it was some kind of contagious disease. "Normally, I refuse buying cigarettes for people, because they give you _cancer, _ but Sheriff Truman said I needed to get some for you, so…"

Albert blinked down, saw his hands had turned white from squeezing the sink. Opened his mouth to answer, only to find Cooper's hand on his arm, Cooper's voice talking in that mild, encouraging tone he seemed to reserve for Twin Peaks residents exclusively. "That's all right, Lucy – Dr. Rosenfield needs them for, ah… _medicinal _purposes." A weary look, one that said _you owe me one. _"Just bring whichever kind they have. He's not a difficult man in _all _respects." This with a half-smile as Albert shot him the prerequisite glare.

A longer pause this time, the voice that followed behind it only faintly sulky. "If you say so, Agent Cooper." Then, perking up, "Oh – I've put some coffee out here on the table. That's only three-quarters of a thermos bottle; the machine is broken so we can't fill it all the way. And I brought the leftover jelly donuts from yesterday. They could be a bit crumbly, but Sheriff Truman said to bring them anyway. I _said_ I could order new ones, of course, but then _he _said I was being…"

Albert gritted his teeth and stuck his face under the tap.

By the time the litany trailed off, he was sure his lashes were about to freeze from their lids. Still, he waited to turn off the water until he heard the outer door slam shut. Glanced into the mirror to find Cooper's eyes reflecting his own frown back at him.

"Yeah, yeah," he grunted, drying his face on a mildewy towel he didn't want to know the history of. "I owe you one. Add it to the list, if you're keeping a tally –"

"For the record, Albert, I agree with her." _Ah. _He grimaced – of course there'd be a price to pay. "You're a intelligent, reasonable person with a fair amount of willpower; you could have quit a dozen times over, and yet you insist on slowly killing yourself–"

"What if I do?" Albert countered, frustration rolling back in like wildfire. It was uncanny, really, how little Cooper needed to bounce back to his feet, get his mind off violent death and inhabiting spirits for long enough to start a lecture on _smoking_, of all things. But then again, that had always been Cooper's way, hadn't it? He snorted. "Admit it, Cooper. You and I have been in this profession way too long not to know there are a hell of a lot worse ways to go. We've seen plenty in this case alone – Laura, Maddy, goddamn _Leland Palmer… _At least _I _know what I've got coming."

_Touché, _he thought darkly, watching the mirror-image eyes go wide. Well – if Cooper wanted to bring up topics they'd agreed to leave well enough alone, he'd better be prepared to do a little cringing, too.

"Albert, I just don't understand –"

"Then let me make it clear to you, Coop." He took a breath, deciding that, since Cooper had promoted this to Take-Your-Private-Opinion-To-Work-Day, he hardly needed to swallow down his. "We all have our ways to cope here. For you it might be a great comfort to rely on dreams, hunches, voices blowing in the breeze, giants muttering clues in your ear, your regular brands of magic and mumbo-jumbo, I don't care. Me, though, I need something I can touch. Something like _this_," sticking up the battered pack of smokes, "and you might say it's not a clean solution, the recourse of the weak and so forth – hell, you might even be _right_. But so far it's worked just dandy, and –"

"I'm sorry, Albert, but there's a flaw in your logic."

"Oh?" He sputtered. "All right – I forgot to mention the dwarf. Naturally I should've realized that would render the whole argument void."

"Albert, don't."

He blinked, thrown off-balance by the intensity behind the tone. Felt a pressure on his arm as Cooper tugged him away from the mirror to face him, keeping one hand on his shoulder, and something inside him clenched.

"Albert…" Cooper watched him intently. "You say you don't trust dreams, or hunches, or any kind of mumbo-jumbo – but you trust _me_. You told me just this morning to crack this case by whichever means I had. In what way is that different?"

A shudder rose and stuck in his throat, and it took all his effort to squeeze his voice around it. "Why is it _different? _" Trying to block out the touch, only to find that he couldn't. "I'm a man of science, Cooper. You may think that means I don't take anything at face value, and to a certain point, it does. But I don't need to have invented quantum physics in order to operate an X-ray, and I don't need to believe in your methods to believe in _you_." He broke off, had to come up for breath to finish his thought. "So yeah, it _is _different. It's different because whatever temporary fits of insanity you indulge in, you've always come through and collected your marbles at the end. Because you're a good man," _too damn good for the rest of us, _"and because–"

_God damn me, I love you._

He didn't realize he'd said it out loud; would have sworn that he hadn't, until he saw Cooper's face, aglow with some emotion he couldn't identify. If he'd been any younger, any less trained at self-deprecation, Albert might have said it looked like pride – at _him_. That was absurd, of course. If there was anything he was entitled to right now, it was a good kick in the backside for putting his foot into his mouth. He wasn't even sure who'd been talking just now: Great Rosenfield The Pacifist, or Rosenfield the fool who had, half a lifetime ago, fallen for one Agent Cooper with all the subtlety of the proverbial ton of bricks.

Truth be told, though, he could make a fairly decent guess.

"Albert, please look at me." Cooper's voice was too gentle to bear, too gentle for him to do anything except force his chin up and meet those eyes. "I know this case was more than you bargained for." The hint of a smile. "So thank you... for deciding to stay." And before Albert had collected his wits enough to protest, he felt himself pulled in by a pair of flannel-clad arms.

He flinched, overwhelmed for a moment by the taste of might-have-been. It was all he could do not to wrench backward, to simply avoid temptation altogether, because _that_ ship had sailed a long time ago. And even if it hadn't, he could never compete with a dead woman. Yet as much as he needed to, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Instead he bore the intimacy stiff-lipped and unmoving, heart slamming in his chest with some weird amalgam of heat and anguish.

Carefully, gingerly, he patted Cooper's back, as if afraid of breaking something – maybe himself.

His collar itched like hell, which was exactly, he remembered now, why he despised woolen sweaters. The thought, in the end, was what broke the spell.

"You're welcome," he grumbled in Cooper's ear. "It was either staying or seeing the same in-flight movie for the fifth time in a month. I hardly picked the worst of options."That drew a faint chuckle as a reward.

Breaking contact, he already felt like he'd lost something precious.

"You bought damaged goods, Coop," he muttered, then cursed himself wondering where the hell that had come from. Cooper, though, didn't seem half surprised.

"Aren't we all, Albert?" He sighed. "Aren't we all?"


End file.
